a scream

I bled out in the ice cream shop. I didn’t have anything to believe in except the hope which came out the windows and some woman, some lost girl flinging vagrants backwards against the wind. I had no other inception or belief other than her, but a person is not an anchor so I went missing for a few years. I ran outside the building in the still naked snow and figured that nothing was lost in my flight. I figured that the transfiguration of the doorway was nothing against how I held my special flashlight against the woes of the street rain. There didn’t seem to be a door, and there wasn’t any way I could figure that out except to make a person out of a door, and in blank confusion I wanted the woman to stand in the door to make everything right but I had no good way to convince myself of the fallen thoughts and trees which became like the same thing, O grief, my good long heavy hearted companion, where can I rest myself in your favorite house—was it in the doorway? Was the woman just something I coupled with in a destroyed time in order to hope? There are no endings in between the lines drawn around the third thing which I am seeking. I don’t have anything else to tell you about right now. There are no other things which I believe in anymore. No one gives me any gifts. I just wanted to be alone, some time along the snow covered hill where I went to college in a past life. The third thing is befriending that sallow, unforgiving companion named sadness. That third way is forgetting I have a house and forgetting I have or could have it, and forgetting, forgetting who I made into a good dream place, that woman, who wasn’t ever really there anyway, just a small glass figment clouding my lungs in the ocean, just a small wooden cast with which to travel with, and sometime in the middle of the night I remembered when sleeping just how it was to believe in what I wanted to say. Yet it was already over, the woman left a long time ago and there were no essences left in me that could make a good book sing, there were no remembrances anymore except which things I kept much like objects around me to discern just how it was I felt things, now and before, forgotten and again.